Healing - Book One

one

The bluebird in my grasp tweets relentlessly, however it quietens down when I run my thumb down its feathers. The right wing sticks out at a strange angle: almost certainly broken. I lie the immobile bird down in my skirt and extend the afflicted wing with my thumb and forefinger.

"This might hurt a little." I whisper to the bird, mostly trying to reassure myself that the creature won't mind.

Taking my free hand, I find the broken bone at the top of the wing and grip the break in between my fingers. A horrible crack and a sudden jerk of the scapular causes a screech of pain from the bluebird. Trying not to get upset over it's misfortune, I examine my work and conclude that the wing is fixed.

Carrying the feathered creature in my hands, I walk to the back of the garden and extend my arms up in order to encourage it to fly away. At first it's unsure; it flaps both of its wings as if it's confirming the break is healed. The bird rises to its feet and outstretches its limbs, before taking off from the safety of my hands and onto the September breeze. I watch it glide over the garden wall and over the Oxfordshire fields into the distant clouds.

I adjust the white bow on my dress bodice out of fear that Mary will scold me for being untidy. Mary is our family's housekeeper, and also my tutor. Both of my parents are doctors and work in central Oxford, even at this dangerous time. Since they're not home most of the time, Mary cooks and cleans and, since I'm not classified as 'normal', I cannot attend normal school. Therefore I'm homeschooled, and teach myself other things through reading.

As I approach the house, I notice that the side gate is open, although I left it shut. Somebody must be visiting, I think to myself, although I cannot think who it could be. Besides, I don't have any school friends and barely any family.

I ascend the steps on the patio, my short-heeled pumps clicking against the stone. I enter my home through the lattice doors into the living room, where a familiar face turns to look at me from the sofa. I'm overjoyed that it's my aunt Agatha - younger sister of my mother - flashes her pearly smile at and pats the spot next to her on the couch.

Her auburn curls are coiled into a roll on the crown of her head, she wears bright red lipstick and matching baby-doll pumps. Mary sits on the opposite armchair, watching me through a narrowed stare. Once I'm sat down, Aggie gathers me up in her arms and hugs me tight. Then she returns to her original position and takes both of my hands in hers. I can tell by the change in her expression that she is about to speak something of importance, immediately instilling a tense worry into me.

"Mary, could we possibly have some privacy please?" Aggie chirps to the housekeeper, who presses her lips together and nods, before reluctantly leaving the room. My aunt waits until she's definitely out of earshot before she speaks again.
"Vi, my darling," Aggie's thumb runs up and down my knuckles. "You and I, we're very similar."

"Yes, in terms of looks."

"Well, that is true. However I feel it's time to tell you something else we share." She inhales deeply through her turned-up nose. "We know you're different, lets say. Well, Vi, I am too."

Aggie squeezes my hands tighter and grins across her perfectly pink cheeks. At first, I don't quite understand. I obviously looked puzzled, because my aunt begins to explain further:

"I can heal things, Vi. Close wounds, repair bones, even restart hearts. Violet, that sounds familiar, does it not?"

It does sound very familiar. In fact, I have performed all of those things before, and it seems that aunt Aggie has also.

"We're what people call peculiars. Having a peculiar gene can go undetected for generations, which means your grandmother or grandfather did before me and your mother - but only I received the active gene. Now you have it too."

A wave of happiness and relief overcomes me, I'm not the only one! Tears are beginning to pool in Aggie's beautifully lined eyes, this must mean so much to her. However one thing I cannot move from my mind is why my parents never gave me an explanation to what I was in almost seventeen years of having my abilities. They must have known, they can't not have known.

"This is why Peter and Martha won't send you to a proper school, they fear you'll be persecuted. Oh Violet, it must have been awful being in the dark for so long."

Aggie pulls me into another embrace. She's right, it wasn't exactly a picnic being a complete social outcast and being known by other people who walk past the house as 'the strange girl who reads books in trees and has an odd bond to birds'. It really is comforting to know that Aggie knows how I feel.

"Why did nobody mention anything to me, Aggie? Whenever I asked, mother never gave me a real explanation."

"Maybe - maybe she was trying to protect you." She clearly has no answer herself, most likely trying to protect her sister from any anger from me. "Anyway, the reason I'm telling you this now is because," she checks behind her to see if Mary's returned: she has not. "There are places for girls and boys like you, who are not like normal children. They're safe places, run by peculiar ladies who can manipulate time. Now, I happen to have a friend who is one of those women and I plan to write to her when I get home. I want to ask her to take you on."

This gets better, I think to myself. Of course, I'll miss my parents, but to me any things better than being stuck in the same walls day after day with nothing but a strict housekeeper and books. I'd much rather be with 'my own kind', as it were.

"Could you, aunt Aggie? Please?" My pleading is unnecessary, for Aggie has clearly already made her decision. She smiles warmly and places a manicured hand on my cheek.

"I'll see what I can do, Vi. I'll break the news to your parents later. Perhaps you could go and gather together things you may want to bring. We don't know how much time you have left here."

I let an excited squeak slip from my lips, and jump up from the sofa and bounce from the living room. My feet spring up the shiny staircase and carry me down the hallway to my open bedroom door.

Once I'm in the confines of my room, I place a record on my gramophone and perform an odd, happiness-fuelled dance around the floor. Grabbing my suitcase from the top of my armoire, shaking my hips in front of the mirror and throwing my body onto my creaking metal bed are all major dance moves in my uncoordinated routine. Flinging open the doors of the armoire, I examine my clothes, still kicking my legs and swinging my hips to the record. Many of my garments are replicas of things I've seen in my mother's magazines, and persuaded her to pick them up from Oxford on her way home from the surgery. It's a little sad that none of my things have ever left the Le Doré family's gate.

The tune continues to play, I fold every floral puff skirt and pastel dress I own into my case, along with a few white blouses and several pairs of ankle socks with frills around the top. I gather my favourite novels up in my arms and strategically pack them alongside my clothes, followed by too many pairs of shoes. I don't stop jiving until the gramophone needle lifts.